The Chop Shop (18 page)

A wafting stench
filled the air.

“Treatment for
colon cancer not included,” Richard said.

The man grinned.
“I'll be long dead before that will ever kill me. Hand it over and we'll talk.”

A blinding beam
of white light cut into the office, sweeping across each of them in turn.

“I hate those
lights more than my dead wife. They keep me awake all night. Pieces of junk.”

“Yeah, yeah.
Stop being evasive, take your pizza and start talking,” Michael said.

Richard produced
a recording stick from his pocket and hit the button.

The man snatched
the box away from him. “Fine. It's late last night, and I can't sleep because
of the lights and the cold, okay? Traffic is normally dead at that hour, but I
hear an engine approach. Except it slows down and then stops, so I drag myself
to the window.

“It's a white
van. Two blokes get out, open the back and drag out this guy who's bound and
gagged. They take him into the alley. He's trying to wriggle his way out, yeah?
He tries to talk, but it's just muffles and they don't care, and then they cut
open his throat with the biggest knife I've ever seen.”

“Okay, now we're
getting somewhere. Did you take down the number plate? We can check it at the
council.”

The man grinned
as he picked up a slice of pizza. Grease dripped from the edges and ran down
his hands. He took a massive bite before setting it back down again, and then
tossed a slip of paper from his pocket. The paper turned transparent from where
his greasy fingers had touched it.

“How about you
read it to me and I write it down. I don't want that stuff all over my hands,”
Michael said.

His continued
grinning as he did so. “Seeing as this food is so good, I'll let you in on a
little secret; there's a pair of CCTV cameras two buildings down the road,
mounted on the second floor. They're still working, 'cause I've seen them
move.”

“Go on,” Richard
said.

“It's a private
office rented by some guy. I've seen the lights on in that place, and the
cameras would've picked up the van coming down the road and driving away.”

“Let's go,”
Michael said.

“That pizza
stinks like hell. We must have been the first people to walk into that pizza
place for days,” Richard said, when they were back out on the street.

“I don't think
environmental health is high up on the list of council priorities. His beard
probably has its own ecosystem,” Michael said. He walked down the street and
saw one of the cameras on the second floor panning back and forth.

“Just like the
guy said, but no lights on,” Michael said, pointing to it.

“I don't know
about you, Mike, but I'm beginning to find this sudden increase in breaking and
entering to be a little disconcerting.”

“We'll leave the
guy an IOU form.”

“And he'll take
it into the station, where it will be filed with all the other claims for
property damage and be forgotten about. Ah, screw it, I want the bounty. If he
can afford to rent an office, then he can afford to get the front door fixed.”

“That's the
spirit.”

The front of the
building was boarded up with wood and sheets of metal, so they continued on
until they found a side alley that went around the back. A rusted fire escape
extended down the side of the building, shedding flakes of black paint and
covered in pigeon droppings.

Michael gripped
the handrail and gave it a shake, and the metal rattled. He took several steps
up the stairs, feeling the fire escape lurch back and forth, as he shifted his
weight from foot to foot.

“Is it safe?”
Richard said.

“Safe as we're
going to get. Somebody's dropped a few chips on the stairs and they haven't
gone mouldy yet,” Michael said. He continued up to the second floor. Every step
he took made a clanking noise, and vibrations ran through the handrail.

The door's glass
panels had been replaced with metal. Michael moved back, and then slammed his
foot into the bottom of the wood. It opened an inch before snapping back into
place. “Doesn't look too secure. Give me a hand. On three.”

They kicked the
door together, and the lock snapped free of the wood with a thunderous crack.
The door slammed against the wall, before ricocheting closed again. Michael
unholstered his gun and ventured inside. He walked past several artificial
plants.

The lounge area
was filled with sealed cardboard boxes and invoices. Filing cabinets lined the
walls, and the main office occupied what had once been a bedroom, with its
window overlooking the street below.

He heard the
soft humming of a computer drive. One of the lights flashed on and off, as the
computer wrote data to its storage unit. Wires went through the wall to both
cameras outside. Michael looked out the window and saw sewage raining down from
part of the plate above.

“Here, let me,”
Richard said, holding a screwdriver. He turned the machine off and removed the
drives from inside.

“Have we got a
spare machine we can rig those up with at the station?”

“Yeah, it's no
problem. I want to go before another private security team gate-crash this
place.”

Michael
scribbled a note for the occupant and left it on the desk.

“You know, it's
really off-putting when you stare at the back of my head like that. I can see
your reflection in the monitor,” Richard said.

Corporal Hill
pushed another crisp into his mouth and crunched it. “Lunch break. Nothing else
to do.”

“That makes a
change.”

The room was
nearly empty, except for the tables, chairs and computer, and it seemed to have
no other purpose than to hold the machine.

“Have you got
the drive plugged in?” Michael said.

“Yeah, turn it
on.”

He powered up
the computer, dropping into the machine's BIOS briefly to enable the new drive,
and then let it boot to the operating system. Five minutes later and he had the
computer copying the archived recording onto its own drive.

Hill ate the
last of his crisps. He scrunched the plastic wrapper up and tossed it into the
bin. Michael filled out the property retrieval form.

“Don't bother
with that; they'll never give it back to the guy. Requisitioned property stays
requisitioned, until somebody forgets what it is and throws it out with last
week's lunch,” Hill said.

"That's
what I tried to tell him. Okay, the files have copied. Is it loading?"
Richard said.

"Yeah, it's
reading them," Michael said. He cycled backwards through the images,
watching the time stamp in the corner change. He saw the vehicle drive
backwards down the road, until it stopped beside the alleyway.

Hill leaned in closer,
and his breath smelt of cheese and onion. “This guy wasn't messing about with
security. Look, you can pick out the number plates.”

Richard
scribbled down the details.

“You're flipping
a coin as to whether they're fake or not,” Hill said.

“It's not like
we have a choice. Fake plates aren't so widespread these days, because it's
already such a pain in the arse trying to track a vehicle down. Nothing to lose
except our time, and we waste enough of that as it is,” Michael said.

“I hope we catch
a break sooner or later, otherwise we're going to be out of a job,” Richard
said.

“Does this have
anything to do with the phone call you made?” Richard said.

Michael nodded.
“I'll tell you all about it later. You're always going on about doing your own
thing without somebody breathing down your neck, right? Well now you can. It
won't take too long.”

“Okay. Give me a
buzz on the radio when you get back down, and I'll pick you up again.”

Michael stepped
out of the car. He lingered under one of the floodlights, as he watched Richard
drive out of the security perimeter, and then made his way towards the cargo
lift.

“Going up?” the
policeman said.

He nodded. The
policeman raised the safety barrier, and then secured it back in place with the
metal chain. He slapped the up button with the palm of his hand, and the lifted
jolted into action.

It was raining
on the surface of the plate, and puddles formed in the crevices of the ground,
reflecting the glow of city lights and grey overcast skies. He took the
monorail further into the centre and got off at Upper Temple station.

Policemen stood
guard behind portable barriers, ushering the stream of people in expensive
clothes down the stairs and through weapon scanners, where they filtered out
onto the street.

Further on,
Roadblocks formed a security perimeter around a set of buildings. His identity
card and a security number got him through the checkpoint. Signs and private
security personnel directed people around the maze of metal barriers to the
main entrance, where banners proclaimed the opening of the Anna Berrie
Corporation fashion display.

The scent of
extravagant perfumes hung in the air. A few people waited at the side, smoking
cigarettes, and just beyond them was a woman in a wheelchair arguing with men
from the venue's security team.

People watched
from behind the barriers with some vague trace of amusement or embarrassment on
their faces. Michael pushed his way through their ranks, flashing his police
identity to any who began to protest.

Buzzing voices
filled the entrance area, and the pitter-patter of shoes on hard flooring
echoed off bare walls. Waiters carried platters of champagne amongst the guests
and visitors. He checked his watch and headed into the main hall.

Rows of seated
people ran parallel either side of the catwalk, retreating into the darkness
where the lights had been dimmed. Music played, interrupted now and then by the
voice of a female announcer booming through the speakers. Michael thought he'd
seen her on television once.

He skirted
around the edges of the hall, finding James halfway along the right side,
partly hidden by a draped curtain. The hushed chatter of the audience fell
away, as the next batch of models walked out onto the catwalk.

Projectors shone
panoramic photos of East European death camps onto each side of the hall. The
women wore clothes fashioned out of military uniforms, carrying organ
transplant boxes and gas masks for props. One wore a necklace of bones and
bullets, and the next in line tugged on a chain attached to the man and woman
trailing behind.

Both were
dressed up as refugees, accessories to the main display in their fake rags and
dirty faces, and the woman clutched a human skull in her hands. Cameras flashed
like automatic gunfire at the catwalk. The audience clapped.

Michael found
himself transfixed by the projections on the walls, as old memories better off
forgotten resurfaced in his mind. “What the fuck is this, concentration camp
chic?” Michael said.

James put a
finger to his lips and hushed him. “Quiet. Follow me, I don't have much time;
I've got to cover one of the displays. It's a bit ghoulish isn't it?”

“It's not
ghoulish, it's tasteless.”

They walked to
the other end of the hall and turned a right into the corridor, as the last
model finished striking a pose for the cameras. James got them both through the
next line of security with a wave of his press pass.

“They let you
move about freely like this?” Michael said.

“I'm here as
part of the press. We're precisely the people they want to move about freely.
Besides, these kinds of stories always go down well with our readership.”

“That's too
bad.”

The corridor was
crowded on both sides by media representatives and public relations workers,
sipping drinks and talking, each one seeming as though they'd done it all a
million times before. They wore a mixture of sharp business suits and trendy
casual wear, with identity cards and press passes hanging about their necks.

James let him
into a side room and shut the door. A trio untouched coffees sat on the table,
still giving off trails of steam. He sat down at one end of the table, placing
his satchel on the side.

“Will we have
some privacy here?” Michael said.

“As much as
you'll get around here.”

Michael frowned.
“You have some very serious questions to answer. I should be dragging you down
to our station.”

“Yes, about
that. You did something very questionable and very illegal in supplying
confidential police files to outside sources for their own use. It would be
very bad for you if that information became public knowledge, such as being
printed in a newspaper.

“Even if you
tried to silence me, the truth would still get out. You can keep puffing your
chest out and clenching your teeth, or we can go back to being cordial again.
Take a breather, before you turn red in the face.”

Michael reached
under the table and wiped his sweaty hands. “That man ended up dead. I've got
witnesses and CCTV footage to prove it. Funnily enough, he ends up dead right
after you get handed that police file. You need to tell me what's going on.”

James touched
one of the polystyrene coffee cups. He winced at the heat, sniffed its contents
and took a small sip before setting it down again.

“'After you get
handed that police file.' Yes, who handed it to me? I'm not responsible for his
death, if that's what you're implying. I write articles for the paper and
report stories, I don't have them killed. My boss and I needed to speak to him,
and that's what we did. Somebody else killed him.”

“So tell me why
you needed to speak with him. What so important about this man? He obviously
told you something, or frightened somebody by talking to the press.

The door opened,
and sound from outside flooded the room. Two men and a woman entered, still
laughing at a shared joke. They saw him and stopped, and Michael flashed his
police identity card.

“Leave, we're
having a private conversation.”

They turned
back, and pulled the door shut behind them. It went silent again, except for
the distant pulse of music throbbing through the walls.

“The MP who
killed himself, the one you were investigating, there's going to be a
by-election, right? Let's just say that the candidate most likely to win is the
one who is not popular with my employer. It's bad for business, and my employer
wants to make sure events do not go in his favour.”

“You're smearing
him?”

“I think the
more accurate phrase would be informing the public of his very shady past and
morally corruptive behaviour.”

“Right.”
“Jeremy Miller was an old university friend of his, and they had a tendency to
get into trouble. His father was easy to track down, but him? Not so much. We
didn't want to tip the father off, and the additional leverage would be useful,
so that's why we had you get the files from your station database. We paid him
some money, too. He wasn't in a good place; drugs cost.”

“Somebody found
out about Miller talking to you, and they went to shut him up?”

“Except they
were too late; he'd already spoken to us. We're not ready to go public yet, as
there are still a few more skeletons to drag out of the cupboard. You might be
interested to know that this new candidate is quite friendly with Eratech.”

Michael
scribbled a couple of messy lines in his notepad. “Doesn't it bother you that
you might be next on the list for being taken out?”

“They'd only be
digging themselves a deeper hole. It's harder to get rid of somebody like me.
Here, I've written some information down for you. It might be helpful in your
investigation, and seeing as you're the one investigating this murder, perhaps
you might like to pass along anything you find out. It'd only stain his
reputation further. I can make it worth your while.”

“Really?”

James gave him
that smug smile again. “The paper keeps a war chest set aside. Occasionally
they print something too inflammatory about somebody with enough money to
afford lawyers. It's been filling up again recently, so I'm sure I could get
some of the funds diverted to you, if you ever helped us out some more.”

Michael checked
his watch and put the papers away in his coat pocket. “You keep playing these
kinds of games and one day you're going to get burned.”

“I very much
doubt that, but anyway, I've got to get back to work.”

They went back
outside.

“You know how to
contact me if you change your mind,” James said.

A female journalist
blocked the way back to the catwalk with an arm stretched across the corridor.
She had a drink in the other hand, chatting to two PR representatives.

“Excuse me,
ladies,” James said, flashing them a smile. They moved aside, and he vanished
amongst the crowds in the main hall.

They waited in
the car park with the engine running, eating their sandwiches as they watched
the front of the station. It seemed strangely lifeless, just empty cars waiting
in neat little rows. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a policeman or two, in
the shadows with their rifles. Then the lights shifted, and the figures faded
back into darkness again.

“I don't like
Harris breathing down the back of our necks. It's like he's watching every
little move we make. He should become a politician. That's all they ever do,”
Richard said. He ate more of his lunch.

“He breathes
down our necks because his superiors breathe down his. It's corporate
bureaucracy. He was an officer in the army, though; I would have thought he'd
know how to delegate properly. You can't command an infantry company whilst
holding every private's dick in your hand.”

Richard
shrugged. “Sometimes he's not so bad. Sometimes it seems like he knows what
he's doing. I suppose he looks out for us, but ever since you showed up here,
things just haven't been working right. Bombings, killings, corporate
espionage. It's getting too hot for me.”

“I thought you
wanted this. Maybe you should quit and find something else behind a desk.”

“Look at the
unemployment rates; it's this or scavenging for food. I'll take my chances with
this.”

“I don't blame
you.”

Harris came out
of the entrance and paced towards them. He clutched a radio in one hand and a
packet of cigarettes in the other, and Michael rolled down the window as he
approached.

“You wanted to
speak with us, sir?” Michael said.

The major
nodded. “I didn't want it going out over the radio. All I can say is, be ready;
something might be coming up. It's vague at the moment, and I can't tell you
more than that, but you need to be ready to move.”

“That doesn't
mean much to me,” Michael said.

“You've got a
lead to follow up on for your investigation?”

“Yes, sir. We
have,” Richard said.

“We've got a number
plate that checked out at the council registry. Either the killers were
complete amateurs or they made a serious misjudgement. There's an address we're
going to check out, but we need a fire team to accompany us on the raid,”
Michael said.

Harris shook his
head. “No can do. We're short on men and the other stations are unable to
assist. A local businessman has paid to have squatters evicted from some
properties he just bought, so they're all busy with that. The company is still
pushing for us to get a grip on things. My hands are tied, sorry. Grab some
gear from the armoury and wear body armour. You'll be fine. Contact me when
you've cleared the place out.”

“Ah, shit,”
Richard muttered, when Harris was out of earshot.

“God damn him.”